My So-Called Sex Life

My Saturday Evening Post

As a little girl, one of my favorite past times was to curl up on my parents' sofa, covered in a warm quilt. While the cat slept on one side of me, and a plate of sourdough toast sat on the other, the place of honor in my lap was taken over by a big coffee table book of Norman Rockwell prints. I'd spend hours pouring over his nostalgia filled pages of Americana. From shy girls primping in front of mirrors, to families of weary travelers hanging out at bus terminals, to freckle faced boys lounging at the watering hole - a mangy dog never too far behind.

My first real love of literature came from these paintings, because each one told a story. There was no text beneath them, so I could make up whatever I wanted. The petite woman getting her marriage license next to the lanky Jimmy Stewart clone? I figured she used to work as a secretary, but her boss was awful. And Jimmy, who all the girls loved but who had eyes only for this plain but classic beauty, came in and swept her off her feet. Literally. In a very Richard Gere Officer and a Gentleman moment, he swooped her into his arms, away from the typing pool, and into his own Jacuzzi of love. They got married and lived in a modest, but quirky, one bedroom apartment in New York. She was a dog person, and he wasn't (bitten as a child  sad story) so they got a family bird instead. All worked out well until they got a cat who thought that parakeets made a fine supper. She cried on his shoulder, but then she got pregnant and had twins and he was such a great dad that they never thought about the bird ever again. Unless they ate chicken. Which she cooked with love. And never burned it. Because although she had a mind of her own, she was a swell cook. The end. (That's real life, huh? It's my narrative, so go with it.)

When my own Jimmy Stewart entered my life ten years ago, we had the opportunity to attend a Norman Rockwell exhibit in San Diego. What struck me the most from those vibrant portraits is not only how beautifully Rockwell painted, but how idealistic he was. Turns out he did not paint the way life really was, but how he wished life could be. Sure, he painted a few more serious things, such as a little girl attempting to walk to school without getting bullied during the Civil Rights Movement, or some harrowing portraits of war, but in general, he kept his art focused on the joyful side of life.

I relate to Rockwell so much, because what I thought marriage would be was that painting of the bride and groom: An hour glass figure leaning against the broad chest of an adoring young man. I didn't foresee what would really happen when they walked out of the notary's doors. Maybe she was pregnant and her groom left her the day after the baby was born? Maybe he couldn't hold down a job and was an alcoholic? Maybe they lived at her mother's house and he fell in love with her sister, or she ran off to join the circus?

As for what happened to me after our vows? Nothing as dramatic as the possibilities I concocted above. But I did find that I had to stop judging my marriage from the lens of my idealism. With real life come real thoughts and real things. Real life is not rosy cheeked perfection with clean houses and never ending days at the lake with a fishing pole. It can be downright ugly, like 1980's puffy couches that I had to beg my husband to kick to the curb. Often it doesn't smell so great, like the time everyone in the house had a contest to see who could vomit the most within a 24 hour period. (My husband won  losing his Jimmy Stewart title that day.)

But other times, life is as beautiful as a portrait. Like the days when no one is fighting at the dinner table. And we have candles lit. And soft music in the background. And our family is nearby and the dog is under the table and for a few minutes... maybe even an hour if we're lucky... the rest of the world stops spinning and we can, like Norman Rockwell's famous Thanksgiving portrait, give thanks for the American idyllic life that we lead.

You might wonder what all this has to do with sex. I suppose it's just that I am trying, lately, to embrace my sex life not in the way that I think it should be, but the way I'm the most comfortable with. It means taking a few chances in certain areas, but not worrying if I'm not ready to sign up for that pole dancing class yet. To me, Rockwell had the best version of sex there was, and that was romance. And love. And people holding hands. And a little moonlight never hurt either.

And now, with 10PM drawing near, I think I'll end this Saturday night evening post and retire with Jimmy. (Rex got his title back a few weeks ago when he remembered to bring me flowers for Valentines Day.) I wonder what old Rockwell would think about connecting to so many people through cyberspace? Would he hate it for its impersonal aspect, or would he see the positive side of the internet, perhaps painting me at my laptop, candles burning, mangy dog at my feet being replaced by a battered, but loyal, mouse at my fingertips? I'm going with the second option. Like I already said, I'm an idealist and that makes me happy.

Sweet dreams, everyone. May you always have full moons, warm hearts, lots of food in your table and love in your beds.

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